


How the Other Half Live

by indestructible_LittleMy



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Banter, Drarry, Enemies to Lovers, M/M, Mystery, Sort of a crack fic?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-31
Updated: 2021-03-07
Packaged: 2021-03-11 00:34:11
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 14,999
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28462464
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/indestructible_LittleMy/pseuds/indestructible_LittleMy
Summary: When Draco Malfoy and Harry Potter went to bed in their respective dorms, they hadn’t expected to finish the night in the hospital wing. And certainly, neither of them had expected to switch bodies. While they try to figure out who’s done this to them, the boys have to pretend to be each other, which has some interesting consequences.
Relationships: Draco Malfoy/Harry Potter
Comments: 35
Kudos: 125





	1. The Switch

**Author's Note:**

> I wish I owned Harry Potter, especially with J.K. Rowling's recently-public stances (which, for the record, I don't agree with). This was written for fun, please don't sue me.
> 
> TRIGGER WARNING: there are some semi-graphic descriptions of body transformations in this first chapter. Specifically some eye-related stuff, so if you want to avoid that, do a page search and start at "The pain vanished."
> 
> If anyone would like to translate this into a different language, feel free! Just please let me know you've done that, and credit me as the writer of the original English version.

At 6:48 am, Draco Malfoy sat bolt upright in bed. He slapped a hand to his eye, where a deep, stabbing pain had begun out of nowhere. It felt as if his brain was trying to escape through the eye socket, armed with a sharp sabre.

He rushed to the adjoining bathroom and squinted in the light, waiting in greater and greater agony as he slowly got used to the brightness. But even as the light became less harsh, Draco found he could not open his left eye completely. He bent forward, pulling his eyelashes upward to inspect for one that had fallen in, but the pain seared hotter every time he attempted it.

Draco sighed shakily. Perhaps it was no mere eyelash, but a scratch to the cornea. That might better explain why exposing his eye to the air made it worse. 

He looked at himself in the mirror, one eyelid closed and (leaking, which was a whole other mess), the other open, grey, and frightened. He turned on the sink, still hoping it was only an eyelash, and splashed cold water onto his face. 

The water seemed to help for a moment, but then the pain was back, and this time it felt as if the optic nerve had been severed and was thrashing around helplessly, looking for a connection that was no longer there. Draco knew no amount of water could fix a problem like that. He knew of no spells to fix it, either, and if he _had_ known any, he was intelligent enough not to try on his own.

But then the optic nerve found its tether. The pain vanished. Draco could open his eye. The sight he was met with in the mirror made him dizzily grab the sink. His left iris was now a brilliant green, and half of his vision was incredibly poor. 

“Bollocks,” he muttered to himself. He knew that green. He knew it all too well.

When Draco returned to his room, Blaise sleepily called out, “You weren’t sick, were you?”

“No.” Draco grabbed his wand. “I think someone’s cursed me, and—” he collapsed onto his knees, clutching his other eye, which had begun throbbing. He swore. “I need the hospital wing.”

“You need help getting there, or are you good?”

“I'm fine, Blaise,” Draco said primly, more out of frustration than truth. “Go back to bed.”

“If you insist.” Blaise tugged his sheets up past his ears.

Draco scowled, wrapped himself tightly in his dressing gown, and left the dungeons.

The hospital wing was dark, save for a lonely light over a single bed. The occupant was shrouded by two figures that Draco could not make out, even when squinting. They turned at the sound of someone entering the room. Madam Pomfrey and Weasley’s faces took shape as Draco approached, but they were still somewhat out of focus. On his way to the hospital wing, Draco’s other eye had become as blurry as the left. Though he didn’t have a mirror, Draco figured they were both green now.

“Malfoy,” said the Madam-Pomfrey-shaped blob. She seemed a little shocked to see him.

“Madam Pomfrey,” Draco said, nodding to her. He went to stand on the other side of the bed and was unruffled to see Potter there, looking up at him with cold, grey eyes. His nose bore the pinkish marks of the nibs on his glasses, which he had in his fist. 

“Ah, Potter,” Draco said. “Good. You’re here. Give me your glasses.”

“Excuse me?”

“I thought I recognised the green eyes. Was it not obvious when your vision became much clearer? Or when your irises turned grey?”

“Are you saying we’ve switched _eyes_?” Potter’s were very large.

“Yes. We’ll see if it stops there. Your glasses?" Draco demanded, holding out a hand for them. “I refuse to spend another moment squinting. It’s undignified.”

Wordlessly, Potter held them out. Draco snatched them up, unfolded them, and held them up in the light, peering warily through the glass. 

“If you really have got my eyes,” Potter said, “they should be the right prescription.”

“I don’t know what that means,” Draco said sharply, but still, he situated the frames on his nose. He could now see perfectly, save for a blurry halo where the glass stopped.

Draco’s scowl deepened when he caught sight of Weasley smirking. “Think this is funny, do you, Weasley? I’d curb that amusement if I were you. If I’m right, your best mate’s about to turn into me, for who knows how long.”

“If you are indeed correct, Malfoy,” said Madam Pomfrey seriously, “you have a long night ahead of you. And if Potter’s…discomfort is anything like yours, a painful night.” 

“You don’t _actually_ think Harry’s going to turn into you?” said Weasley, who didn’t seem to have heard what Madam Pomfrey said.

“Good lord, you’re thick,” Draco responded. “And Potter, you could look a little less surprised yourself. What did you think, that this was going to stop here? Who would curse us so that only—?” He cut himself off. Potter’s hair had begun streaking itself with blonde. The effect made him appear as though he was rapidly aging. “See for yourself. I imagine my hair’s got black in it now.”

The way Weasley looked back and forth between him and Potter confirmed it.

“You had better lie down, Malfoy. Here,” Madam Pomfrey gestured to the next bed, and Draco sat on it. She started examining him with her wand. “This doesn’t appear to be Polyjuice; it’s too slow-acting. It seems the process is staggered, as well. One eye and then the next, rather than at the same time. Very peculiar. Have you drunk anything in the past several hours?”

“No,” Draco said, flipping the pillows behind him so he was more comfortable. “I haven’t.” He pushed his (now black) hair aside, but it flopped back into his eyes. He tried again, only to get the same result. This was going to be deeply annoying, he could already tell.

Madam Pomfrey’s eyebrows came together and she lowered her wand. “Neither has Potter. Have either of you eaten anything?”

Both boys shook their heads.

“Oh, spare us the time, Malfoy, and tell us what you did,” said Weasley.

Before Draco could say anything in his defence, Madam Pomfrey said, “I’ll ask you not to assume anything about my patients, Weasley. Malfoy and Potter are both suffering, and I kindly ask you to leave so that I may deal with them.” She started moving toward him, flapping her hands to shoo him from the bed. “Goodness knows I’ve let you stay much longer than I’d have liked already. Good night.” With that, she ushered him the last couple steps toward the corridor.

“I’ll come visit you tomorrow,” Weasley called. The doors shut loudly behind him.

“Now,” Madam Pomfrey said, turning around. She huffed. “Let’s see if I can’t stop this.” And she began examining the pair of them, every so often trying spells to stop the changes. It was only after their noses and chins had switched that she decided to call it a night.

“Are you both comfortable? At least, for the moment?” she said.

“I think so,” Potter said.

She looked to Draco. “For now,” he said.

“Right.” Madam Pomfrey made a sweeping motion with her wand and curtains closed around their beds, isolating them from the rest of the hospital. “You two have been here enough times to know where my office is. If you need anything, don’t hesitate to come get me, or to shout. _Do not leave_ until you have been released. Okay?”

“Yes,” the boys chorused.

“Good. I’d give you something for your pain, but I’m not sure how that will react with whatever’s going on with you. I’m afraid all we can do right now is wait this out.” Her face softened. “I…realise that’s not the most encouraging thing, but we _will_ stop it, somehow. I’ll go write to a couple of friends over at St Mungo’s, see if anything like this has ever been reported.

“Rest up, now,” she said with a nod. Then she ducked out of the curtains and left them alone.

  
  


*******

Neither boy got much sleep that night. As Madam Pomfrey had discerned, the transformations were oddly staggered. One moment Draco would be perfectly fine, and the next, one of his feet would start to feel like it was being shoved into a very small bottle. As Draco was somewhat taller than Potter, he had plenty of time to figure out the correct analogy for the sensation. The worst was arguably when his spine, and only his spine, constricted so violently he thought that every single vertebrae had been broken.

Draco did his best to remain silent during the spine shrinkage, but it was difficult. Potter’s whimpers and yelps were fairly loud too, despite being muffled by his pillow— Draco wondered if it was perhaps worse to feel yourself be stretched than shrunk. It certainly sounded that way.

But like every other change, the pain down his back eventually stopped. When it did, Draco sat up and said, “This is ridiculous. We’re obviously not going to be able to sleep, might as well suffer together.”

“Yeah? And how do you suggest we do that?” Potter said hoarsely. “Turn on the light and hold hands?”

“No,” Draco growled. “And don’t go anywhere near that light.”

“Why? Are you scared, Malfoy?” Potter’s words were mocking, but his voice was thinner. Higher. 

If he was honest, Draco felt the same way. He was terrified of the potential abomination he might see if they had not fully transformed yet. He couldn’t tell which parts of his body had changed and which had not — pain has a nasty way of clouding memory — and he was also afraid to look down at his own body, even in the darkness, even with his now-limited sight. But instead of relating any of this to Potter, he said, “How long has it been since the last change?”

Potter shifted beneath his sheets. “Er, I’d say about three minutes?”

“Blast it.” Draco ran a hand over his forehead, pushing back hair of unfamiliar thickness and colour. It sprang back into his eyes for the millionth time that night. 

He huffed. “You know, I can’t decide what’s worse about this: getting your woefully shameful vision, your complete disaster for hair, or the sheer agony of turning very slowly into you. And not just the physical pain. The _emotional_ pain. I dread the interactions I’m going to have with your fans, and worse, your friends.”

“You were one slight away from getting a full bingo card, there. You forgot to mention my family.”

“What,” Draco asked, “is _bingo_?”

“Never mind,” said Potter.

“And, I might add, you have no right to tell me how to insult you. You’re even worse at that than you are at flying.”

Potter gave a breathy laugh. “I stand corrected. _Three_ slights away.”

Draco huffed again.

“Would you stop that?” said Potter. “It’s annoying.”

“I’m sorry,” Draco said sarcastically, “was I distracting you from something important? By all means, we can sit here in silence if that’s what you want.”

“You know that’s not what I meant.”

Draco pressed the side of his face more firmly into his pillow. “I don’t know what you mean. If I’m to become Harry Potter, it’s in body only— I haven’t gotten access to your thoughts. Though if I had, I bet they’d be really mundane — you aren’t very interesting, you know — so maybe I’m better off…”

From the corner of his eye, Draco saw Potter turn toward him. “Everything's always an insult with you, isn't it? Can’t you be normal, for once?”

“You wouldn’t like me to be normal,” Draco spat, and turned resolutely in the opposite direction. “It would be very boring. Since I’m your enemy, that wouldn’t be very good of me, would it? Being boring?”

Potter chuckled brightly. “That’s the best thing I’ve heard you say, ever.”

“Happy to be of service,” Draco said through his teeth. 

Then his ribs decided to unfurl. He let out a ragged scream as he felt them scrape menacingly against the inside of his skin.

“Malfoy?” Potter asked. He leapt out of his bed and bent over Draco’s. 

Draco shut his eyes. He swatted at Potter, wordlessly trying to get the boy to go back to his own bed before the same thing happened to him, too. He knew that he wouldn’t want to feel his ribs rearrange themselves while he was left stranded on the cold stone floor.

Unfortunately for both of them, things didn’t happen quite like Draco had been expecting. Rather than falling to the floor, Potter fell to his knees. In the process, their bare forearms touched and the scraping sensation immediately dulled to mild discomfort. Their ribs started meshing back together, and within a matter of seconds, the rest of their bodies decided to start changing as well.

“What,” Draco wheezed around a perceivable lump in his voice box, “were you thinking?” He pushed Potter off of him.

“What _was_ that?” Potter countered, still kneeling at Draco’s bedside. “Why did it all suddenly get faster? Was it brought on by contact, or proximity, or—”

Draco pulled the chain on the bedside lamp and blinked, both in the bright light and at the blurry sight of Potter squinting dramatically. No— _himself_ squinting dramatically. He turned the light back off.

“Was that really necessary?” Potter said in Draco’s voice. The hair on Draco’s — Potter’s — _Draco’s_ arms leapt up. “Woah. I don’t like that.”

“Then stop talking,” Draco said in Potter’s voice. He sounded less threatening that way. He didn’t care for it.

“We can’t not talk about how weird this is,” Potter said.

“Have you never taken Polyjuice Potion before?” said Draco, feigning boredom to keep the anxiety at bay. “It’d be suspicious to turn into someone else in every way but their voice.”

“I know that,” said Potter, leaning his elbows on the mattress. “But this isn’t Polyjuice, is it? We’ve established that. There’s so much we don’t know about what’s happening. Aren’t you the least bit curious?”

“Of course I am. Obviously I want to figure out what’s going on, who’s cursed us and why, but right now I’m more concerned about whether we’re done.” Draco dropped his voice to a whisper. “What if we’re not?”

The mattress shook as Potter nodded. “When I touched you, everything else that hadn’t transformed began to. That must mean we’re done, right?”

“Must it?”

“There’s one way we could figure it out, Malfoy,” said Potter. He said it softly, like he was afraid of upsetting Draco.

This, too, upset Draco. He pulled on his sheets so that Potter’s elbows skidded out from underneath him. “I guess we’ll have to wait until tomorrow, then,” he said nastily.

Potter sighed and stood, brushing himself off violently. “Fine.” He strode to his bed and jerked his sheets aside, crawled underneath them, then faced the opposite direction. “If you want to be childish about this, fine.”

“Good night, Potter,” Draco teased. 

Perhaps he was enjoying this more than he should have been.

“Yeah, whatever,” was Potter’s response.


	2. The Morning After

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey y'all! Finished this more quickly than I thought I would. Will continue to update sporadically, so apologies for that. 
> 
> Thanks to everyone who's read this, and those who have left kudos!
> 
> Enjoy!

Harry woke up in another person’s body. Frankly, aside from a couple of new things — longer limbs and fingers, blonder hair, eyes that worked on their own — he didn’t really feel much different. Of course, being in a taller person’s body meant that his pyjamas didn’t quite fit him the way they normally did. There was now a significant gap between where the striped fabric ended and his wrists and ankles began.

Malfoy, who was already sitting up in bed, also seemed to have noticed the issue. He waved an overlong green sleeve at Harry, saying, “Take off your clothes.”

A beat. “That’s forward,” Harry said.

Malfoy sneered, and Harry found it very unpleasant to see that expression on his own face. 

“Is it?” said Malfoy. He threw his sheets aside and stepped out of bed. He crossed his arms and stared expectantly at Harry. “Up.”

“Yes, all right.” Harry got up and stood in front of Malfoy, crossing his arms as well. “But you’ve got to turn your back.”

“Fine,” Malfoy spat, facing the curtains that still surrounded their beds.

Harry faced the opposite direction and started unbuttoning his shirt. Out of politeness, he did not look down at Malfoy’s — _his_ — chest, and instead kept his gaze on the white ceiling. But when he got to his trousers, Harry forgot himself somewhat. As he pushed them down, he noticed that Malfoy’s knees were significantly less knobby than his own, and that, while both of them were thin, Malfoy seemed less runty, more lean. 

“Thank Merlin we don't have to switch pants,” Malfoy said suddenly, “I don't think I could handle you in mine.” 

“Agreed,” said Harry, who had just discovered the same thing. He shuddered. “I'd have to burn them later.”

“That wouldn't be the worst thing, yours look terribly ratty. How old are they?”

Harry glanced over his shoulder to find Malfoy standing only in his pants and looking thoughtfully at Harry’s. Harry covered as much of himself as he could. “Turn your back!”

“Potter, I've seen myself _nude_ a million times. This is nothing.”

“Yeah, well right now _I'm_ in this body and I would prefer it if you turned around. And if you were modest with my body.”

“All right,” said Malfoy, facing the curtains.

Harry was shocked. He thought Malfoy would have been much nastier about the request, that he would have stripped off his pants and paraded himself through the hospital wing or something. “Thank you,” he said, somewhat breathlessly.

“Don’t read too much into it, Potter, it’s a lot easier to listen to you like that. You sound so reasonable when you're wearing my face and speaking with my voice. And my arse,” said Malfoy, voice dipping into a strange octave, “well… I never realised it looked that good.”

Harry choked. “What?”

“Your arse isn’t half bad either, Potter.”

Harry screamed.

“Quiet!” said Malfoy. “Or do you want Pomfrey to see us like this?”

“Give me your pyjamas,” said Harry, who was now blushing furiously.

The other boy obliged, nudging Harry’s back with the neatly folded garments. Harry handed his over in a loose ball.

Malfoy tutted. “You had better not treat my clothes the way you do yours, _Potter_ , or you’ll be receiving a hefty bill when this is all over.”

“There are plenty of ways to fix wrinkles,” Harry said under his breath, stepping into Malfoy’s trousers.

“I heard that.”

“Why I said it out loud, Malfoy.”

Once they had swapped pyjamas, Malfoy gave Harry an appraising look, nodding. “That’s much better. You looked ridiculous before.”

“So did you,” said Harry as he climbed back into bed. 

“Actually, I quite thought I pulled it off,” said Malfoy, pulling the curtains aside so they could see the rest of the hospital wing. “Harry Potter doesn’t look half bad in silk. Granted, you would need to get the proper size—”

“Stop,” Harry said, cutting him off. “I know what you’re doing, and just…stop it. I’m already uncomfortable enough as it is, I don’t need you trying to make me feel worse.”

Malfoy raised a dark eyebrow. “Is that what you think I’m doing?”

Before Harry could respond, Madam Pomfrey opened her door. “Oh, good, you’re awake,” she said, bustling over. “How are you feeling?”

“Better than last night,” said Harry. He could feel Malfoy’s eyes on him, but he continued to look at Madam Pomfrey.

“And you, Mr Malfoy?” she asked.

“Well, I _feel_ like a git,” he said, “but physically, I suppose I could be worse.”

Madam Pomfrey’s nostrils widened to twice their usual size. “Very well. Is there any residual pain?”

“No,” said Harry and Malfoy.

“Any more recent changes? (“No.”) Temperature fluctuations? (“No.”) Dizziness? (“No.”) Do you think you’ve fully transformed? I see you’ve switched clothes.”

Harry and Malfoy exchanged glances.

“I think so,” Harry said.

Madam Pomfrey pursed her lips. “Hmm. Well, we’ll do another examination, make sure nothing’s wrong with your insides.”

As if they knew they were being mentioned, Harry’s squirmed. He hadn’t thought about his heart, or lungs, or blood type, or anything like that. All he knew was that he and Malfoy now looked like each other— he’d assumed last night that everything else had righted themselves. Or rather, _wronged_ themselves. It was entirely possible he and Malfoy were some amalgamation of each other, rather than what they appeared to be.

His thoughts were interrupted when Madam Pomfrey prodded his arm with her wand. She had begun examining him. The process went on a great deal longer than Harry had been expecting, and was made far worse due to Malfoy’s terrible sense of humour. Every question Madam Pomfrey asked them was answered with a sarcastic or suggestive comment. If the situation had been different, Harry would have left. Or socked Malfoy. Weird as it would have been to punch himself.

“It seems the switching process has finished,” Madam Pomfrey announced after several long minutes. “Frankly, I’m not sure if that’s good or bad news.”

“Bit of both, I think,” said Harry, looking warily down at his body.

“Agreed,” said Malfoy.

“And of course,” said Madam Pomfrey, “without knowing how this came about, I can only predict how long this will last, how it can be fixed, or even _if_ it can be fixed.”

“You’re a real ray of sunshine today, aren’t you?” Malfoy asked.

Madam Pomfrey ignored that. “Is there anything else you can tell me about the whole process? How long did the transformations last?”

“Most of the night,” said Harry.

“‘Most?’” she repeated.

“Yeah. It was slow going for a while, but when Malfoy and I brushed arms, everything sped up.”

“You touched?” she asked.

“It was Potter’s fault,” said Malfoy, and at the same time Harry said, “It was an accident.”

They glared at each other.

“Did your skin make contact, or was it only the fabric covering it?” the matron prompted.

“Skin,” said Harry.

“Have you touched since?” said Madam Pomfrey. 

“Why on earth would we have done that?” Malfoy said, narrowing his eyes at her.

“If touch was important the first time around, it would be foolish not to explore that again now.”

“And what if this gets worse?” said Malfoy softly.

“Then it gets worse,” said Madam Pomfrey. “But if there’s a chance we can fix all this, why not take it? I have yet to find a spell that did the job, but this is an unusual problem— perhaps it requires an unusual solution. Now,” she added, readying her wand, “if you’ll stand?”

Once Harry and Malfoy had climbed out of bed, Madam Pomfrey said, “Hold out a hand.”

Harry stretched a tentative hand toward Malfoy, who shrunk backward. “You want us to _hold hands_?” he said. “Like children?”

“You _are_ children, dear,” said Madam Pomfrey, smiling at him.

Malfoy muttered something angrily to himself, but did as she asked anyway. 

The entire room held its breath, waiting for something magical to happen. A light, maybe, or a sound, if not a complete reversion back into the proper bodies. Something to signify that what had happened last night, and what they were trying now, had a purpose. 

Moments later though, Harry and Malfoy looked exactly as they had all morning.

“Try your arms,” said Madam Pomfrey, whose thin eyebrows had come together somewhat. 

Harry and Malfoy pushed up a sleeve, then held their forearms together. Again, nothing happened.

“Maybe both your hands or arms at the same time?”

Nothing happened for either attempt.

“This is ridiculous,” said Malfoy, separating himself from Harry and pushing his sleeves back down.

“You’re not the only one who wanted it to work,” said Harry, frowning down at his body.

“I suppose we could keep trying this, but I don’t want to make either of you uncomfortable,” said Madam Pomfrey. “I’ll keep you under observation for a day or so, but there’s nothing physically wrong with you, apart from…well.

“With hope, we’ll have you fixed soon enough.”

Suddenly, the hospital wing doors banged open and Hermione and Ron rushed inside. 

“I’m sorry, Madam Pomfrey,” Hermione said as the matron opened her mouth to protest, “but usually the doors are open by now. I had to know if Harry was okay.” She leaned around Madam Pomfrey, and looked briefly between the two boys before her gaze landed on Harry. “Are you?”

“For the moment,” he answered.

“You two shouldn’t be in here,” Madam Pomfrey scolded, and tried to shoo the pair out. “The privacy of my patients—”

“I know. But Ron already knew, and of course he was going to tell me… And look,” said Hermione, holding up a set of robes, “we also came to give these to Harry. You’ll let us at least do that, won’t you?”

“I suppose so. I’m finished with them for now,” said Madam Pomfrey, glancing at Harry and Malfoy, “ _but_ ,” she added, making Hermione and Ron’s smiles droop, “make your visit quick. I’m expecting the Headmaster and your heads of houses, and I won’t tolerate a crowded ward.”

“Of course, Madam Pomfrey,” said Hermione.

The matron stepped aside, and Ron and Hermione rushed over to Harry’s bed.

Ron bent close. “Blimey, you look just like him,” he said, looking at Harry like he was something he had stepped in.

“Isn’t that the _point_ , Weasley?” Malfoy snapped from the next bed, adjusting Harry’s round glasses angrily on his own face. 

“Well how was I to know that the curse — or spell, whatever this is — would transform you completely?” Ron countered. “There are a couple curses that involve switching eyes, or feet, or something, usually between enemies or people who don’t get along.”

“Really?” Harry asked. He had never heard of anything like that before.

“Yeah, the goal is usually to make them see the world from a different perspective, but, you know. Literally.”

“What have I said about using that word, Ron?” Hermione scolded.

Ron furrowed his eyebrows. “What, ‘literally?’ I can’t use it even though it’s correct there? What should I have said, then?”

“ _Would_ you control your friends, Potter?” Malfoy interjected. “They’re bickering like an old married couple.”

Hermione and Ron blushed at that.

“Here,” said Hermione, holding Harry’s robes out to him. Then she seemed to think better of it. “Actually, I guess they’re for Malfoy now? Since they’ll fit?” She handed them to the other boy.

“Perfect,” he said, accepting them with a frown and delicate hand.

“Suppose we’ll have to wait for Crabbe and Goyle to give me yours, then,” Harry said to Malfoy.

“Mm. I wouldn’t trust them with that,” Malfoy said. “Your best bet would be if Snape’s told Blaise or Pansy to do it. But even then,” he continued, tilting his head, “they’re not always reliable, either.”

“Good job it’s a weekend, then,” Harry said brightly. “And besides, depending on when Madam Pomfrey lets us go and when we get sorted, you might not ever have to put on Gryffindor robes. I can see it pains you to have even touched them at all.”

“Perceptive of you, Potter,” said Malfoy, smiling maliciously. He swung his legs theatrically over the side of his bed. “Maybe you’ll learn something from this horror show.”

“It’s not learning if I already know how your mind works.”

“If you’re not back to normal when you’re discharged,” Hermione said cautiously, “that could come in handy. Unless we want to confuse the whole school, it would be smart to figure out how to act like each other.”

“Let’s hope it doesn’t come to that,” said Malfoy, who suddenly looked a little sick to his stomach.


	3. Let's Play Pretend

It came to that. 

To Draco’s horror, when Dumbledore, Snape, and McGonagall stopped by a bit later, they agreed with Granger. According to Dumbledore, it was “better not to confuse or alarm the rest of the students by such a dramatic, and hopefully temporary, situation.” And then he’d twinkled at them like they were the punchline to a saucy joke. 

Unfortunately, the secret was kept for all of one day. Or rather, part of it was. Once the other students noticed Draco and Potter were absent from classes that Monday, the natural assumption was that they had tried to finish each other off for good, and had ended up in the hospital wing. People started pouring in, complaining about fake injuries or illnesses to try and catch a glimpse of the two— though it was clear they mostly came to get a look at Potter.

Madam Pomfrey, to her credit, saw through the lies and relocated Draco and Potter to a different, more private room at the back of the hospital wing. Draco was sure it hadn’t existed before then, but he wasn’t about to complain. The only attention he wanted was from Potter, and a space meant for the two of them was the perfect opportunity to get that.

“Tsk tsk. What _have_ I said about that, Potter?” Draco asked Tuesday morning, when Potter came back from a shower with impossibly dishevelled hair.

“I know, I know,” Potter replied, smirking in a way that looked like he was trying to fight it. He sat on the edge of Draco’s bed. “You going to help me fix it, or what?”

“No,” said Draco, closing his book. “Today you’re going to learn how to do my hair yourself.” He pulled Potter into a standing position and marched him across the room. “I won’t be there to fix it when we leave the hospital wing, and who knows if Pansy would offer to do it for you? She’s the only other person who knows how to do it right; she helped me for weeks after that hippogriff broke my arm.”

Potter shook his head in exasperation. “Oh, come on, we all know you were faking—” 

“I never fake anything.” Draco dragged the desk chair in front of their floor-length mirror. “Sit,” he said, pushing Potter onto it and standing behind him. “Look at yourself.” 

Draco pulled gently on a couple strands to point out their disarray. “Under what circumstances would Draco Malfoy ever leave his room looking like this, hmm?”

“After you’ve just gotten a shower?” said Potter, raising a light eyebrow.

Draco smacked his arm. “Cheeky. The correct answer is never. You _can_ tell the difference between this—” he tapped Potter’s head— “and what I normally do, right?”

“‘Course I can,” Potter said with a pert smile. “It’s more whether I care to do anything about it.”

Keeping his voice light to disguise the threat, Draco replied: “You _will_ care; don’t forget, I can easily make all your friends turn against you. This body,” he said, looking down at himself, “could do a lot of damage.”

Potter turned in his chair to face Draco. “So could this one,” he said, his grey eyes sparking with delight. “I wonder what the Slytherins would think if Draco Malfoy suddenly fancied Harry Potter?”

Draco nudged Potter’s neck back around. “One atrocity at a time,” he said, and was pleased to note that, even though his face felt warm, no colour was visible in the mirror. “Your normal bird’s nest might suit _you_ fine, but Draco Malfoy has higher standards.”

“Sure,” Potter allowed, “but everyone’ll suspect something’s wrong when they see me like that.” He nodded at Draco’s reflection, whose hair had been styled into an ‘artfully messy’ look rather than a plain ‘messy’ one. Draco had been rather pleased with it up until that point.

“How did you manage it, by the way?” Potter continued, “I’ve been struggling for so long, I’ve given up.”

“Suspicions confirmed. Honestly, Potter, a little hair potion, like this one” — Draco grabbed a jar off the desk — “could tame even Granger’s tangle. But you don’t want to use too much. Only two fingers’ worth of product, or it’ll look greasy.”

“Learning from our past mistakes, are we?” said Potter.

Draco sniffed loftily. “Malfoys don’t make mistakes. Now focus. Watch what I do.”

He swiped his fingers into the clear blue liquid, rubbed them against his opposite hand in a circular motion, and pulled the product a couple times through Potter’s blonde hair, making sure to spread it evenly. “See? It’s already starting to look better. All that’s left is to comb it out, and that part’s easy. The potion and my haircut will do most of the work, so luckily for you, you don’t have to be very creative.”

“You know,” said Potter, tilting his head back so Draco could start combing, “being rude to me won’t make me want to listen to you.”

“It’s not being rude if I’m giving you good advice,” said Draco.

“High-maintenance prat,” said Potter. He leaned back further into Draco’s touch, eyelids closing halfway. 

Draco wasn’t quite sure how to interpret that. Despite his words, it looked as if Potter was enjoying this, but it was impossible to tell for sure. And Draco wasn’t about to ask, for fear of being accused of the same thing. He didn’t think he’d be able to lie convincingly.

Regardless, Draco slowed the motion of the comb through the other boy’s hair. He could allow himself that much. “If you say so, Potter,” he said quietly.

“Actually,” said Potter, “I’ve been meaning to talk to you about that… When we go back to classes, you can't call people by their last names. I almost never do.”

“Should I be flattered you call me Malfoy, then?”

Potter scoffed and stretched out his legs. “Why don't you practise on me?”

Draco sighed, rested his hands on the back of the chair, then contorted his face into a smile with way too many teeth. “Hello…” He paused, thinking, “Haribold, lovely day, isn't it?”

Potter sniggered. “You think my name is _Haribold_?”

Draco’s mouth reverted back into a frown. “Is it something else? Harrith? Harrison?”

“No-ho-ho!” said Potter. “It’s Harry. Just Harry.”

“Is it really.” Draco peered at him. “Very well. Though I really shouldn't be seen calling you Harry or Potter, since we've switched.”

“Oh, that's right…” Potter tried on a sneer for the next word, “Potter.”

It was Draco’s turn to laugh. “Good lord, _Malfoy_ , you sound nothing like me. You've got to say it like you really hate me.”

“I do hate you.”

“And here I was thinking that we might move past all that,” Draco said, leaning forward to playfully pinch the other boy’s chin.

“Shut up, _Potter_ ,” Potter spat, tugging his head out of Draco’s grip.

Draco was almost proud. “That’s more like it.”

“Yeah, well it feels wrong.”

“To call a git by any other name…” 

“The same applies to you,” said Potter.

Draco chuckled, then reached out to comb the final strands of Potter’s hair into place. “There,” he said when he was satisfied.

Potter turned to admire the sides of his head. He brought a thumb to his jawline, seeming to test its sharpness before sliding it along the ridge to his chin. 

It was still bizarre, seeing someone else manipulate Draco’s body. Like watching a photograph of himself, but without the repeated loop of actions. But Potter was far less predictable than a photograph. He proved it by reaching up to touch the bangs Draco had just finished arranging to one side.

“Don’t,” Draco warned. “You’ll ruin it.”

Potter sighed. “Okay, but only if you let me—” 

In less than a second, Potter had whirled around and, kneeling, had begun attacking Draco’s hair. By the time Draco successfully detached himself from the other boy, the damage had been done.

Panting angrily, Draco stepped away from Potter. If he had been wearing robes, he would have clutched them tighter around himself. “You ingrate!” he said, pulling the wrinkles from his pyjama shirt. 

“Don't be so fussy.”

“I’ll do as I like, _thank you_.”

  
  


*******

For the rest of the day and well into the next, they continued training to be each other— with some degree of success. It was difficult, thinking up all your mannerisms and trying to replicate them when you weren’t in your own body. What was more, the pair oscillated between friendliness and hostility, which was its own mess. But if they had thought it hard to absorb a list of behaviours in the relative safety of their shared room, it was far more difficult to pretend once they’d been released from the hospital wing.

The first big test came Wednesday night at dinner.

“Didn't think you liked veal, Harry,” said Longbottom, after Draco had served himself a large helping of it.

Draco froze, knife stopping mid-cut. He and Potter hadn’t discussed food preferences. Of course, now that seemed a rather large oversight.

“Nor, _Harry_ ,” said Granger, her eyes flashing, “did I.”

“Doesn't mean I can't try it again.” Draco took a bite and tried to look like he didn’t enjoy the lemony flavour or the tenderness of the meat. The house elves had done an excellent job, as always. “Not bad, I guess,” he mustered.

Thankfully, Granger intervened. She reached for Draco’s plate and held it toward Weasley. “Will you finish this? I don’t know where Harry’s mind is tonight, but he certainly won't be eating it.”

“‘Course,” Weasley responded, spearing the veal with his fork. Draco was disappointed to see it go.

Over at the Slytherin table, Pansy was torturing Harry. “Come on,” she said under her breath, “Draco loves veal. It'll be suspicious if you don't eat it.”

“But I don't like it,” Harry complained just as quietly. 

She stamped on his foot. “Do It,” she said, then smiled thinly at Theodore Nott, who had glanced over. 

Harry took a bite, and to mask his distaste, glared at Malfoy across the room.

“Oh look, _Malfoy's_ scowling at you again,” said Weasley at the Gryffindor table. He looked thrilled that Potter was doing such a good impression.

“Yes, I do have eyes…Ron,” Draco replied.

When Longbottom chuckled into his peas, Draco smirked. So he could get away with mild teasing. Excellent. He filed that knowledge away for later.

“Don't encourage him, Neville,” said Granger.

“I'm minding my business!” said Longbottom.

  
  


*******

After dinner, Harry followed Pansy down to the Slytherin dorms. Or rather, she dragged him there by the arm. Someone up ahead of them said the password, and they entered into a surprisingly cozy room. The windows backed against the lake, which gave the space a warm, greenish glow; the floor was covered in black and silver rugs that Harry could tell would be quite pleasant to sit on; and there were plenty of dark green chairs and couches scattered about that reminded Harry of the ones in Gryffindor Tower. There was even a fireplace in the far corner.

“Not bad, eh?” said Pansy, who had been watching him look around. 

“It’s a lot nicer than I r- than I thought it would be,” said Harry, deciding not to let on that he’d been there before. 

“It is, isn’t it? Here you are,” said Pansy, pulling Harry toward a chair near the fire. She sat in the one next to his, then handed him a book from the table between them. She reached for a different one, opened it to a random page, then pretended to read. 

“So,” she said softly. “What do you want to know about Draco? I assume he only gave you the most basic information about himself, but I’ve been there for the greatest hits— I can enlighten you.”

Harry gave a surprised laugh. “You’d betray his trust that fast?”

“Tut tut. I never said anything about betraying him, darling, only that Draco’s a little… Let’s say…blind sometimes, especially when it comes to his personality. I can be a bit more objective. If, of course, you’re at all interested in portraying him accurately. We can’t have another veal incident; Nott was definitely suspicious.”

“Do I have to worry about him?” said Harry, flipping a page in his book without having read anything inside.

“Not really.” Pansy scooted toward him and lowered her voice even further. She turned to look at the boy, who was seated in front of the windows, seemingly staring at nothing. “Between you and me, I don’t think he’s got that much going on inside that brain of his.”

“Oh,” said Harry. He wasn’t sure what else there was to say.

“Have we decided, then?” said Pansy. “What would you like to know about Draco?”

Harry leaned forward. “Everything.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've got a headcanon where Pansy is Draco's best friend, but Harry & Co. don't see much of that relationship; they only really notice Crabbe and Goyle because they're big and threatening and Always There. But who says you've only got to be friends with your goons?


	4. Ends and Means

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey everyone! This chapter got kinda long, so I've decided to split it into two. Look out for the wrap up about a week from now :)

Harry and Pansy proceeded to have a very long, very animated conversation about Malfoy. Harry never thought he’d ever get on so well with a Slytherin, but it made a nice change, not being cut off by Ron or Hermione, who typically never even wanted to hear Malfoy’s name. Interestingly enough, Pansy seemed as passionate, if not more so, as Harry was about the topic. And she proved to be very insightful about Malfoy’s personality and habits, which Harry knew would be far more useful than merely working off of what Malfoy had offered.

After deciding that her attempts to describe Malfoy’s walk were “useless without a good mirror,” Pansy had led Harry through Malfoy’s empty dormitory and into the bathroom attached. There, she coached him on the various characteristics of Malfoy’s gait.

“He sways his hips a bit when he walks. Slower, Potter,” Pansy commented, watching Harry as he shuffled awkwardly across the stone floor. “Try it again, but focus on where you’re putting your weight. Here.” 

She took off her black shoes and turned so Harry was looking at her from the side. “Wait longer than you think you need to bring your feet down,” she said, lowering her right heel on an angle to the floor. Then she repeated the action with her other foot, keeping a wide stance. “That’ll lengthen your stride and make it look more like you’re gliding.”

“Like this?” said Harry, trying his best to mimic her.

“Mm-hm. And it doesn’t matter that it looks deliberate, because it is. I should know, I’ve seen him practice.”

Harry snickered at the thought of Malfoy testing out different walks in front of the same mirror. “Were you coaching him, too?”

“Maybe,” she said, brown eyes glinting mischievously. “You know Draco likes to have company, it wouldn't be out of the question.”

“Yeah, why is that?” Harry crossed back to the doorway. “He’s hardly ever alone. If he’s not with Crabbe and Goyle, he's with you, or all three of you.”

“Draco likes an audience. I suppose he feels lonely when we’re not around. Mind you, he hasn't ever said so, that's me speculating.”

“Of course,” said Harry. “How’s this?” He strutted toward her, doing an exaggerated version of Pansy’s suggestions.

“Absurd,” said Pansy, hiding a giggle behind her hand. “It’s perfect.”

Harry did a little mock bow, circling his wrist as he bent forward. He put on a very high voice as he said, “I should hope so, _Malfoys_ are always perfect.”

Pansy was shaking with suppressed laughter. “Merlin, you’re ridiculous.”

“Comes with the territory,” said Harry gesturing to his body. “If you hadn’t noticed, Malfoy’s very dramatic.”

“True,” said Pansy. “Maybe I shouldn’t be surprised, Draco thinks you’re hilarious.”

Harry’s grey eyes widened. “Does he?”

“He does,” said Pansy, turning to examine herself in the mirror. She ruffled her dark bangs and then spread them more evenly across her forehead. 

They both froze at the sound of people entering the dormitory. Harry was suddenly reminded of where he was, and how dangerous it was for him to be there. 

“Who is it?” he whispered.

Pansy motioned for him to be quiet, and went to poke her head out of the bathroom. “Crabbe and Goyle,” she said to Harry, who relaxed instantly.

“Draco and I are busy,” Pansy announced. “Go find somewhere else to lurk.”

“What are you doing?” said a gruff voice. Harry was mostly sure that was Goyle.

Pansy leaned against the doorframe and crossed her arms. “Just girly things, you wouldn’t understand.”

Harry snorted, and Pansy swiped a silencing hand back at him. Even from behind, it was easy to tell she was smiling.

“Okay in there, Draco?” That was Crabbe, had to be. Goyle had a much deeper voice. “Pansy’s not…doing things to you again, is she?”

“I’m fine,” Harry managed, voice quavering with amusement. Pansy swiped at him again, which only made it harder to stay silent.

“See? He’s fine. Now leave,” Pansy ordered. She didn’t face Harry until the door had been closed, and then Harry erupted into laughter.

“‘Just girly things’?” he asked her.

Pansy shrugged. “It was the quickest way to get them to leave.”

“What does it even mean? It sounds like you and Malfoy do them regularly?”

“Oh no, I’m not telling.” Pansy put a finger to her lips. “That’s privileged information.”

“Come on, Pansy,” Harry said, “tell me. It’ll help with my impression of Malfoy, won’t it?”

“Hm. Maybe you’ve got some Slytherin in you, after all. Manipulation won’t work on me, though. Guess you’ll have to suffer.” She patted his cheek. “We have to fix your Draco voice. You still don’t really sound like him.”

Pansy pulled herself up onto the counter and dangled her pale legs over the side. She smoothed down her skirt. “You've got to whine a bit more when you speak. Draco never would have told you that himself, seeing as he always complains when I tell him he whines. Doesn’t stop it from being true.” 

Harry chuckled at that.

“Why don't you try it out? Tell me something,” said Pansy.

“What, like—” Harry tried replicating the lilting way Malfoy spoke: “I'm _Draco Malfoy_ , and you must listen to me, or _I'll_ tell _my father_.”

Pansy cackled. “Oh, that’s almost _too_ good.”

Harry felt his chest expand with pride. He continued in the voice: “How _dare_ you laugh at me, Pansy! You’re supposed to be my _friend_! _Support me_!”

The force of Pansy’s howling made her lean over; she clutched at the bathroom counter to keep from falling off. “Keep- keep going.”

“I command you to stop laughing— Well, it’s screeching, isn’t it? At this point?” He put the voice back on: “Stop _screeching_ like that, it’s making my delicate ears _ache_.” And for impact, he put a hand to his forehead, then mimed fainting. 

Pansy was gone— she had bent over so far that she had finally fallen off the counter. 

“Are you all right?” Harry said, holding his stomach as he bent over to check on her.

Pansy sighed. “I will be.”

Harry sat next to her on the cool stone floor. “This wasn’t all that productive, was it?”

“No,” Pansy agreed with a grin. “But it was fun. And anyway, the most important thing for you to get right is how often you talk about yourself.”

“Who do you mean by ‘yourself’?”

“Talk about _you_ ,” said Pansy, poking Harry’s chest with a finger. “Draco’s always going on and on about Harry Potter. ‘Can you believe what _Potter_ did today in Potions? I was staring at him the whole time and he _completely_ ignored me!’ ‘Did you see Potter at dinner? He was licking his spoon in the most _obscene_ way, I can't believe Granger and Weasley didn't tell him off for it. I mean, I was trying to eat!’”

Harry leaned his head against the counter. “He…doesn’t really say those sorts of things about me, does he?” 

“Those,” said Pansy, “are more or less direct quotes.”

“Oh,” said Harry. He had always thought Malfoy badmouthed him when he wasn’t around. 

“And he loves attention, if you hadn’t guessed.” Pansy’s eyes locked intently onto Harry’s, like she expected him to pick up on information she’d hidden in her words. “Specifically yours,” she added.

Harry shook his head, not really getting it. “What does that mean?”

“It means,” said Pansy, crossing her ankles, “ _you’re_ going to have to get comfortable screaming across courtyards, draping yourself dramatically over things, and being both self-absorbed and completely taken in by everything Draco does.”

“Taken in?”

“Taken in,” Pansy said again, and Harry thought he might finally understand what she was implying. 

  
  


*******

Harry quickly got used to sleeping in Malfoy’s bed. Once he’d gotten over the fact that he was _sleeping in Malfoy’s bed_ , he found the experience a lot less alien than he’d been expecting. He’d assumed Malfoy slept on sheets so expensive they were uncomfortable, but Harry had been pleasantly surprised to discover Malfoy used the ones Hogwarts provided, too. And in the darkness, it was impossible to tell whether the curtains round Malfoy’s four-poster were red or green, or whether the snores he heard came from Crabbe or Ron. 

Actually, Harry got used to a lot of things faster than he thought he would. Classes went about as normal, with two exceptions. The first was that he and Malfoy had to exchange notes regularly, especially with Malfoy in Arithmancy and Harry in Divination; the second was that Snape didn’t know how to treat them. He spent most of their Defense Against the Dark Arts classes ignoring both boys, instead taking his frustrations out on Neville. After the first time, Harry had told Neville about his and Malfoy’s switch, hoping that explanation would somehow make up for it. The brilliant smile Neville gave Harry at being included was worth something, anyway.

And Harry still got to see some of Hermione and Ron, too. They met up almost every day to comb through the library for a book that might give them more answers about what had happened to Harry and Malfoy. Even with Madam Pince’s recommendations (ignoring her brusqueness, of course), they didn’t have any luck.

But in the meantime, it was quite fun, pretending to be Malfoy. Pansy had assured Harry that he wouldn’t have to go round insulting everyone all the time, which he had been dreading. No, the only person he had to focus on was Malfoy, and it was all too easy to get him angry.

One morning, on their way to Defense Against the Dark Arts, Pansy threaded her arm through Harry’s and said, “Look there, Draco.” She pointed down the corridor a ways, where Malfoy, Ron, and Hermione were dodging through the crowd of students, heading toward the same destination.

“But he’s so far away,” said Harry.

Pansy threw him an amused look. “So shout.”

“Oi! Potter!” Harry called. Malfoy stopped and turned to look at him. “How do you like my hair?” Harry ran a careful hand through his bangs, putting more focus on the act of touching it than messing up the style. He was pleased to see Malfoy’s lips purse in distaste.

“Why should I care?” Malfoy shouted back.

Harry continued to saunter toward him. “You need a good example of what to do— I could help you, you know. If you were interested.”

“Who says I am?” Malfoy reached up and tousled his own hair, making it even larger and fluffier than normal. He then crossed his arms and looked defiantly up at Harry, who was now standing two feet away.

It was nice, being that much taller than Malfoy for a change. Granted, it was only about a two-inch height difference, but that, combined with Pansy’s Draco Malfoy lessons, gave Harry a strange sort of confidence. It made him less concerned about the stares he and Malfoy were getting from this exchange. 

“Point proven,” said Harry, eyeing Malfoy’s mussed hair with delight. Malfoy didn’t seem to understand that the action would never bother Harry the way it bothered him.

“Is there a reason you're doing this?” Malfoy said, then pushed his glasses up by the bridge. “We _do_ have somewhere to be, you know.”

“Not really,” Harry replied, making sure to smirk the way he and Pansy had practiced, “it’s more the fact that you’re _here_ than anything else.”

Ron smiled. “Come on, then, we’d better be going,” he said, reaching an arm across Malfoy’s shoulders. He winked at Harry before they and Hermione continued on their way.

  
  


*******

Life as Harry Potter proved far more difficult than Draco thought it would be. Everywhere he went, people stared at him, or got in his way, or in the case of that little Creevey boy, took pictures of him at inopportune moments. And Potter’s friends were, impossibly, more annoying than they seemed on the surface level. The worst offence was that they never really listened to him when he complained about Potter. Even when Pansy was tired of hearing about him, Draco always had Crabbe and Goyle.

“He’s making it very difficult to exist in public,” Draco said one night, after being accosted by Potter outside the toilet. 

“I wonder how that feels,” Weasley said sarcastically.

Draco’s frown intensified. He had waited _ten whole minutes_ for them to reach the safety of the Gryffindor common room before talking about it; it would have been nice for one of them to commiserate with him. “What are you insinuating, Ron?”

Weasley bent forward, putting his hands on his knees. “Don’t you get it?” he said quietly. “He’s doing what you do to _him_ all the time. Shut up and take it.”

“Let’s get back to work,” said Granger from behind her Astronomy book.

“Fine.” Draco took a breath, trying to calm himself. “Hermione,” he said, pleased when it came out cordially, “what are you saying for the second part of our Transfiguration homework? Since you’ve already finished.”

“Trying to cheat off her, are you?” said Ron.

“ _No_ ,” said Draco, barely keeping himself from accusing Weasley of the same thing, “I want to make sure I’ve touched on everything we need to.”

Granger blinked. “Of course. Erm, why don’t you let me read it, and I’ll tell you if I think it’s missing anything.” In a lower voice, she added, “I do that all the time for Harry.”

“Cheers,” Draco said, handing over his assignment. Maybe Granger wasn’t so bad. “What else do you do for him?”

“If you think we’re going to give you something to use against Harry, you’re mistaken,” said Weasley, eyes narrowing.

“I’m merely trying to understand how to keep the pretense going, _Ron_ , so I don’t get found out. _Malfoy’s_ been doing such a poor job, it’s a wonder we haven’t been discovered yet.”

“Actually, I think he’s been doing a great job. As have you,” said Granger, nodding at Draco. “You even talk about ‘Malfoy’ all the time, that’s what really sells it.”

Draco sank backward into the couch. “He talks about me too?”

“Of course he does,” said Weasley. 

Granger clarified: “Harry’s always going on about you, like, ‘Malfoy looks tired, do you think he’s sleeping enough? Should I ask him? I should ask him.’ ‘I think Malfoy’s plotting something; I’m going to follow him; why aren't you guys helping me watch him?’ ‘No, of course I’m not obsessed with Malfoy.’ That sort of thing.”

“ _Is_ Potter obsessed with me?”

“That's not what we're talking about right now.” Draco and Granger locked eyes. “But yes. He is.”

Draco was silent for a moment as he processed that. Then he felt a tap on his shoulder. He flinched as he turned to see Weasley’s sister standing there. 

“Malfoy,” she said, “you’re not going to want to hear this, but—”

“Hold on,” he interrupted. “Who told _her_? And why wasn’t I told that she knew?”

Ginny scoffed. “You could ask _me_ , you know. And I figured it out on my own. Thanks, by the way,” she said to Granger and Weasley. “But that’s not the point. I came over to tell you: Quidditch tryouts start this weekend, traditionally, and as Harry’s the captain—”

“Oh no,” said Draco, wiping a hand over his face. He and Potter flew in completely different ways; that wasn’t something Draco could replicate. And he’d be a truly, truly awful coach, especially for Gryffindor. “I can’t do that.”

“Yeah,” Ginny said slowly, sounding more like she was talking to a child than to someone with more authority.

“So we should figure out how to get you and Harry into the right bodies before then,” said Granger.

“You realise that only gives us four days?” said Weasley.

Draco sighed. “I think I know where to go.”

  
  


*******

Early the next morning, Draco went down to the Slytherin common room, alone. When he arrived in front of the entrance, he nearly spoke the password, forgetting for a moment that he didn’t have it. Feeling rather foolish, Draco knocked on the bare wall. A slot appeared between two stones, and Draco said, “Fetch me Pansy Parkinson. Tell her it’s urgent.”

A couple minutes later, the door carved itself into the wall and swung open, revealing a very tired, very confused Pansy. “Draco,” she said, “what are you doing here?”

“I need to speak with you. Do you know who cursed me and Potter?”

Pansy furrowed her eyebrows. “Why do you ask?”

“It has to have been a Slytherin, right? I doubt Potter’s friends would have done something like this. Has anyone come forward?”

“No.” She glanced backward into the common room. “Come in, everyone else is—” she yawned— “asleep. Where is this coming from? You seem really desperate all of a sudden.”

“There’s Quidditch tryouts coming up. You know how obvious it would be if Draco Malfoy suddenly started flying like Harry Potter?”

Pansy nodded soberly. “Because he’d win. Don’t you want Slytherin to beat Gryffindor?”

They sat at one of the tables near the windows. “I do,” said Draco, “but not on these terms. _I_ want to do it, and not because Potter’s in my body.”

“That makes sense,” she said, smoothing her nightgown beneath the table with both hands.

Something was off. Pansy seemed almost…distracted. Nervous. Draco leaned forward. “Do you, or do you not, know who’s cursed us?”

Pansy looked out the window for a long moment.

“Pansy,” Draco said, snapping in front of her face. “Tell me, please. You know _something_. Surely you don’t want me and Potter to stay like this forever?”

She sighed. “It was me.”

Draco jerked his head up and down in an angry nod. “You…” He nodded some more, mind reeling with a million questions and accusations. He wanted to hit her, or shake her, or something, but he settled for the one question that had been bothering him this whole time: “Why did you choose a curse that would make switching so painful?”

“Painful?” Pansy repeated. 

“Yes,” Draco said thinly, “the transformations were excruciating. And slow.”

“But… There wasn't supposed to be—” She stood suddenly and raced out of the room. Just as Draco was deciding whether he should follow her or not, she came back with a thick purple book, which she slammed onto the table between them. She started rifling through the pages. 

“I don't remember there being a section on the transformations being painful… Of course, I never got many details from that night. Blaise only remembered you leaving, and Potter didn’t want to talk about it… Ah, here we are,” said Pansy, finally landing on the right page.

Her mouth dropped progressively as she read. “Oh,” she said finally. “Yes, here it is.” She turned the book so Draco could read it, and pointed to a small section at the very bottom of the page. “That second footnote, just there. I guess I got so excited by the whole idea, I must have missed it. The author really should have made that bigger. 

“I'm so sorry, Draco,” she said, tears forming in her eyes. “I wanted you to spend more time understanding Potter, rather than abusing him all the time. It’s quite taxing on us all. Me especially.”

“Why did you pick that curse, instead of another, or— No. Why didn’t you simply talk to me?”

“I…thought this might bring the two of you closer,” she said. “You weren’t listening to me— you fancy him, and this was another way to get you to realise it. He likes you too, you know.”

Draco ducked his head. “I gathered as much from Granger and Weasley.”

“And look,” said Pansy, flipping the page of the book, “look at the reversal.”

Draco skimmed the paragraph, then coloured. “No. No, Potter would never agree to that.”

“You just said you think he likes you too. Why would he say no?”


	5. UPDATE!! (NOT the final chapter)

Self-care managed

<3


	6. Transformers 2: Here We Go Again

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi again, everyone! I'm BACK and feeling much better :D
> 
> Big, big thanks to everyone who supported me, both on and offline, during my hiatus. You're all so sweet and I appreciate you immensely <3 <3
> 
> Enjoy the last chapter of this fic and stay safe!

“There could be a million reasons he wouldn’t want to,” Draco said, pulling a frantic hand through his hair. True to form, the black strands immediately sprung back onto his forehead.

“Okay…” Something quite evil drew Pansy’s lips upward. “Maybe you don’t have to tell him at all. Maybe you just grab him next you see him—” she mimed taking hold of someone’s shoulders— “and then—” she slammed the table, pinning the imaginary person beneath her.

“No!” Draco interrupted, feeling his face and neck grow hotter. He didn’t need to see the next part of her scenario. “No, I- I- I can’t do that!”

Pansy shrugged, then leaned back in her armchair, turning to toss her legs carelessly over one side, her dark nightgown fluttering through the air. “It’s the fastest way to turn back.”

“But I can’t—” Draco dragged the sleeves of his school robes down over his hands. “Who knows how he’d react?”

“I think he’d like it,” Pansy said with a sly grin.

“Pansy!”

“What? You’re not the only one who…” her grin widened— “ _fantasizes_.”

Horrified, Draco buried his hands even further in his sleeves. “We aren’t talking about that right now.”

“Aren’t we, though?” said Pansy.

“No,” Draco said firmly. He stood. “I need to go tell him.”

Pansy held out a hand. “But you really shouldn’t be seen—”

“Then come with me.”

After hesitating for a moment, Pansy said, “Oh, all right. But stay behind me.”

It was early enough in the morning that it was unlikely for anyone to be awake, but still they were careful. The air felt thick as Draco and Pansy pushed their way upstairs and then into the dark, but empty, corridor leading to the boys’ dormitories. Their luck expired soon enough, though: when Pansy swung open the door to Draco’s dorm, there was a wand light coming from deep within the room, tinged green by the curtains drawn around the person’s bed. At the sound of the door creaking open, the curtains were thrust aside, revealing a worried, then nonplussed, Blaise.

“Oh good,” he said, focussing once more on the parchment in front of him. He began scribbling on it. “Come to change back, Draco?”

Draco faltered. “You knew?”

“I’m offended you’d think otherwise,” said Blaise. “Don’t forget, I was here when you first started changing into Potter.”

“But I didn’t think you’d _seen_ ,” said Draco. He and Pansy crossed to Blaise’s bed so they could talk more quietly. Thankfully, Crabbe, Goyle, and Nott were heavy sleepers, but Potter was an unknown. For all Draco knew, he’d scream and wake the rest of the Slytherins.

“Oh, I didn’t.” Blaise glanced up again, touching the tip of his quill to his dark lips. “But ‘you’ came back from the hospital wing as a different person, and ‘Potter’ was acting suspiciously a lot like you; it wasn’t terribly difficult to figure out.”

“Why didn’t you say anything?” said Draco.

“You didn’t either.” Blaise looked at Pansy. “Told him finally, have you?”

Pansy folded her arms. “Just now.”

“Excellent,” said Blaise. He set his homework aside so he could bend his knees, then laced his hands behind his head. “Let the show begin!”

“Not going to do it here, obviously,” said Draco thinly, moving to Potter’s bed. Gently, he opened the curtains.

“Pity,” Blaise deadpanned.

Draco stuck a hand out to push Potter’s arm, but at the last second decided against it. “Er, actually… Blaise? I think you’d better do this.”

“Make Pansy do it,” came the other boy’s reply.

“Well _I_ can’t do it,” Pansy said quietly, “I haven’t been coming in as often as I usually do, Potter isn’t used to that.” 

She and Draco turned to look expectantly at Blaise. 

The boy sighed and then dramatically flung his sheets aside. “Both of you, utterly useless. What would you have done if I hadn’t been awake?”

Blaise bent over Potter and prodded his shoulder in the same way one might a dead animal. Potter mumbled something incoherently into his pillow.

“If your excellency would rise, you have guests,” said Blaise.

“Whozat?” Potter slurred.

“It’s your boyfriend,” said Blaise. He smirked when Draco hit him for the comment. 

“My—?” Potter sat up and started rubbing his eyes. Even in the dim light of Blaise’s wand, Draco could see distinct red lines crisscrossing the right side of Potter’s face, left over from where his pillow had creased. It stretched up to his forehead, mimicking Potter’s lightning bolt scar.

Draco pushed Blaise aside to stand directly in front of Potter. “Ignore Blaise, he thinks he’s being clever.”

Potter’s eyes widened as he realised who had spoken. “ _Malfoy_?” he said, louder than he should have. Goyle snorted in his sleep, but didn’t wake. 

Draco lowered his voice. “In the— Well, I guess not really in the flesh, but yes. Get up, I have something to tell you.”

Potter peered past him. “And Pansy? What are…?”

“Shh,” she said, looking very amused. “Don’t you ever listen? Get up, Potter.”

Potter blinked in confusion, but did as she said. He started flattening his blonde hair, which had gotten somewhat wavy as he’d slept. Draco took a moment to appreciate the action, which seemed to be automatic. “Where are we going?” Potter said.

And admittedly, Draco hadn’t thought that far ahead. “The bathroom,” Draco said, naming the first place he could think of.

“Right,” said Potter. He followed Draco into the adjoining room.

“Alone, Blaise,” said Draco when the other boy tried to come in as well.

“Fine, fine,” said Blaise, raising his palms, “but I’m not standing guard for you.”

“I’ll do it then,” said Pansy. “I’m an excellent liar. And Draco… Here.” She gave him the book she’d shown him downstairs. “Good luck.”

Draco closed the door and when he turned, was surprised to find Potter smiling at him. “What is it?” Draco asked him.

“Nothing,” said Potter, eyes ticking between Draco and the wide mirror. “It’s— Nothing.”

Draco whirled around to examine his reflection. His dark hair was messy, but no more so than usual, and his glasses weren’t crooked on the bridge of his nose. He couldn’t see anything out of place with his robes or tie, either. “Why are you laughing?” he demanded.

“I’m not,” said Potter, despite the obvious. “Something Pansy— Never mind.”

Narrowing his eyes, Draco said, “Yes, well, forget about Pansy.”

“Rude!” they heard, muffled, from the other side of the door.

Draco grabbed Potter’s arm and strode over to the far side of the bathroom. This, strangely, made Potter laugh even harder— No, now it was more like he was giggling… 

“ _Will_ you pull yourself together?” Draco said. “It wasn’t that funny.”

“All right,” said Potter, calming somewhat, though there was still a very annoying, I-know-something-you-don’t smirk on his lips. “So, what’s so important that you risked coming here over it?”

“I found the solution to our problem.”

Potter beamed. “Oh, brilliant! What is it? What have we got to do?”

Draco clasped the back of his neck. All of a sudden, he didn’t know where to look. Potter’s smile was sure to disappear the moment Draco told him, he was convinced of it. “You're not going to like it…” 

“Honestly, Malfoy, at this point, there’s very few things I wouldn't consider doing to get back to my own body. How bad could it be?”

Draco stared at the stone floor. He opened his mouth, but found the words had dissolved before they reached his tongue.

“That bad, huh?” Potter asked.

“I don’t… It’s not that it’s _bad_ , per se — it’s not like we’ve got to murder someone or anything—”

“But it’s not as simple as doing a countercurse.” Potter frowned as he connected the few bits of information Draco had provided. “It’s something we have to do, then. Was Madam Pomfrey right? Does it involve…more contact?”

“Yeah.” Draco was grateful Potter had gotten that far, but it didn’t make his next words easier… “According to the book the curse came from,” he said, pulling Pansy’s book out and motioning for Potter to take it, “we— We have to…kiss.”

Potter froze with his hand outstretched. “Sorry?”

Draco pushed the book into Potter’s palm. “Page ninety-four.”

It seemed to take ages for Potter to find the right page. His hands were shaking somewhat, and Draco wasn’t sure whether to interpret that as nervousness or reluctance to find the words that confirmed what Draco had told him. It took even longer for Potter to skim the passage, and when he finished, he frowned even harder at the bottom of the page. 

“This looks right,” he said, finally. The tiredness that had left his face crept over it again. “All of this looks right.”

“Potter,” Draco said, putting his hands in his pockets to avoid the pull of comforting the other boy. He didn’t think that would help things right then. “So we’re clear, we don’t have to do anything about this right now. I’m merely…offering you the information.”

“Okay,” said Potter. He shut the book. “Thank you for being honest with me. It makes for a nice change.”

“Hang on,” Draco objected, “I’m more honest than you think I am.”

A beat. “You _consistently_ complain about things that you actually, secretly like.” 

Draco gave a surprised chuckle. “You know what? That’s fair.”

“Me, for example,” Potter said, smirking.

“Less fair.” 

“Oh,” said Potter, “I disagree.” 

“Now who’s being rude?” said Draco.

“Yeah,” Potter said softly. When next he spoke, he did so to Draco’s left arm. “I don’t think I can do this now.”

“Okay,” Draco heard himself say, somewhat distantly. He was disappointed, yes, but not surprised. Potter hadn’t exactly been enthusiastic at the news. “I wasn’t really expecting… Of course. We should both take some time and um, think it over…”

“Malfoy…” Potter started.

“Hm?” Draco said, drawn back to himself by the urgency of Potter’s voice. His grey eyes were intense when Draco met them.

“Nothing. Just, erm… We need to get you out of here before everyone wakes up,” Potter said.

“Right!” Draco said, jerking backward. “Merlin, Potter, you need to work on your framing— that’s not nothing! How am I going to—?” He cursed and wiped a hand over his face.

“Don’t panic! Give me two seconds,” said Potter, and he brushed past Draco to go into the dormitory, leaving Draco alone with his thoughts. He had been stupid not to consider how long their conversation might take. Yes, it had been very early when he left Gryffindor Tower, but it was rapidly becoming not-early, and there could be any number of people downstairs.

When Potter came back, Blaise and Pansy were at his elbows. They were staring at an object in his arms— a bundle of fabric that rippled like silk and shone like molten silver. 

“Is that what I think it is?” Draco asked, instantly forgetting his fear.

“It is,” said Potter. “I brought it with me when I brought my toothbrush.” He unfolded the wispy fabric and gestured for Draco to step closer, then wrapped it round Draco’s shoulders, which instantly disappeared. 

Everyone but Potter gasped. 

“Is that a _true_ invisibility cloak, then?” said Blaise, eyeing it with clear envy. “It looks different than the ones I’ve seen in the shops. Where did you get it? How long have you had it?”

Potter ducked his head a little at the questions.

“Give him some space, will you, Blaise?” Draco ordered, before admiring his reflection, or lack thereof, in the mirror. The only parts of himself he could see were his head and neck, which floated strangely above the floor.

“You’ll probably have to crouch a little while you’re walking, Malfoy,” said Potter.

“Okay,” Draco breathed. He turned toward Potter, who had an almost fond expression on his face. “Thank you.”

“I’ll walk you out,” Potter said.

“Very gentlemanly of you,” said Blaise, which set him and Pansy off cackling.

Draco ignored them and drew the invisibility cloak over the rest of himself, hiding his body entirely from view. He could still see his knees and legs and arms under the fabric, which was a relief, as he wasn’t sure how he’d be able to navigate quietly if he didn’t know where his body ended. Potter was right though, his shoes and ankles were visible where they peeked out from under the cloak.

“Amazing,” Draco said anyway.

“Let me get dressed, and we’ll go,” said Potter. 

“Oh, same,” said Pansy, briefly grasping Potter’s forearm. “Wait for me; we’ll go together.”

“Okay,” Potter said. Then, to approximately where Draco was standing, he added, “Keep the cloak on, I think I hear Nott getting up,” and left the bathroom after Pansy.

“Are you still in here, Draco?” Blaise asked one of the sinks.

“For the time being,” Draco replied warily, “yes. Why?”

“I was wondering if you’d let me stay and watch next time. Since you two clearly didn’t do the deed.”

“Merlin, Blaise! No! Why do you want to?”

Blaise shrugged. “I want to watch the transformation.”

“You’re going to have to miss it again, because you _will not_ be there,” Draco said firmly. When Blaise made kissing noises, Draco stormed out of the bathroom.

His face grew hotter as he crossed into the dormitory, where he was met with the conflicting sight of Potter, shirtless, bending down to rummage through Draco’s trunk. Immediately, Draco faced the wall and tried not to think about what it meant that he’d found that attractive— no matter that it had been Potter in that body, he still looked like Draco Malfoy.

Mercifully, Potter finished dressing quickly enough. He cleared his throat and held an expectant hand out to the air, about waist height. Draco took it and allowed Potter to lead him out of the Slytherin common room, which had filled somewhat since Draco had entered it. They, Blaise, Pansy, and a couple other Slytherins headed toward the Great Hall together for breakfast. 

Potter didn’t let go of Draco’s hand until they reached the doors, which Draco didn’t mind at all. He was glad the invisibility cloak hid the expression on his face, because if it hadn’t, Blaise and Pansy _definitely_ would have teased him for the smile that kept touching his lips. 

“See you later,” Potter whispered.

“Okay,” Draco said back, and ducked down the corridor to find a less crowded place to take off the invisibility cloak. He folded the material as neatly as he could, then tucked it into his bag. “Later,” he repeated to himself, before setting off to find Granger and Weasley. 

  
  


*******

Breakfast lasted a fair bit longer than Draco wanted it to. He knew Potter was hardly going to make his decision in such a short amount of time — it was a big thing Draco was asking of him — and he was even _less_ likely to interrupt the Great Hall to up and kiss Draco, so that was definitely out. But knowing those things didn’t make the wait any easier. 

What was worse, he couldn’t stop staring at Potter, which he knew might draw unnecessary attention to them both. So he tried all manner of things to keep himself otherwise occupied — mapping the grain of the wooden table, drinking a ridiculous amount of water, forming a face in his scrambled eggs with his fork, talking with Granger about Transfiguration — but still, he found his eyes veering toward Potter, who, by some miracle, never seemed to be looking back at him. 

The problem lingered through Herbology— at Draco’s peril. That day, they were dealing with Venomous Tentacula, and thankfully Granger had been watching, or Draco would have lost a few fingers to the grabby plant.

“Be careful,” said Granger, “or you’ll lose your whole hand next.”

“Who do you think would keep the lost fingers, though?” said Weasley, who was trying to snip the leaves off one vine without getting snipped himself. “You know, once you’re back to normal? You or Harry?”

“It’d be Harry, wouldn’t it?” said Longbottom. He had already filled his container with snapping leaves. “It’s his body, right?”

“I suppose,” said Draco thoughtfully. He admired his — Potter’s — long, callused fingers and decided he didn’t want to risk either outcome. He and Potter both had nice hands. 

“Here, Ron, let me help,” said Longbottom, who seemed worried about the way Weasley was approaching the Venomous Tentacula. He got off his stool and came to their side of the table.

With those two momentarily distracted, Granger fixed her attention on Draco. “You’ve been staring at him all morning,” she said under her breath, “which I assume means you’ve found something? That or you suddenly find your own body very attractive, and I don’t think that’s the case here. You look more anxious than anything else.”

Draco felt like all the air had been pushed out of his lungs. “Am I so easy to read?” he squeaked.

“Not really. I just happen to be very gifted at logic.” Granger gave him a small smile. She turned back to the plant between them and flawlessly cut off one of the leaves. Scooping it into their container, she said, “Now that you know what to do, what are you waiting for?”

“Him to be ready…” said Draco. In the opposite corner of the greenhouse, Potter, Pansy, and Blaise were laughing at Crabbe, who’d somehow lost his shears to their Venomous Tentacula, which brandished them aggressively at the boy. 

“You told him? Goodness, when did you find the—?” Granger nodded slowly. “This morning. _That’s_ where you were. Well, what do you have to do? Make a potion? Perform a spell?”

“I’d rather not say,” said Draco, watching her cut off another leaf to keep his gaze from wandering to Potter again. 

“Okay, but Harry’s going to tell us eventually; he always does.”

“I’ll let him tell you, then,” said Draco, “and save myself the trouble.”

“That sounds about right,” Granger said.

  
  


*******

Class went more quickly after that, and soon enough they were all folded back into the crowded corridors. Draco and Weasley headed toward Divination, and Granger toward Arithmancy. But Draco only got halfway to his destination when a voice stopped him.

“Hey, _Potter_!”

Draco whirled around to see Potter some ways back, pushing his way through the mob of students. After motioning to Weasley to continue on without him, Draco yelled back, “What is it _now_ , Malfoy?”

“You have something of mine; I’d like it back!”

“What, all your talent?” Draco shouted. Several of the students around them snickered, and Potter very obviously tried not to join them.

“Oo, clever,” Potter said sarcastically. He stepped so close to Draco that he was forced backward. “Finally grown some brains, have you? Only took you six years.”

“Lovely to see that you’re still working on yours,” said Draco. 

“I need to talk to you,” Potter said quietly.

“I thought we were,” said Draco, lifting his chin.

Potter threw him a look. “Don’t get cheeky.”

“All right, all right, don’t get your knickers in a twist. Follow my lead.” He winked at Potter and then shoved him, hard, into a couple of the passing students. “Ugh, I don’t have time for this, Malfoy! I need to get to class.” Draco started down the corridor, hoping Potter would follow him. 

It took a moment, but Potter was soon right behind Draco again, shouting, “What’s the point? You never pay attention anyway; I doubt your marks could suffer any more if you skipped a lesson.”

Draco turned down what he hoped would be a less crowded corridor, and was happy to note that there were only a couple students there. He began walking backward so he could watch Potter’s face as he said, “What are you suggesting we do, eh, _Malfoy_? Sounds like you want to bunk off together.”

The look of surprise, and then embarrassment, on Potter’s face was worth it. Draco gave him an exaggerated simper before walking the correct way again. He spotted the door to an unused classroom and sped up.

“Don’t be absurd,” said Potter. “As if I’d ever suggest doing something with the likes of _you_. You know, I think all your ideas of fame have finally caught up with you.”

“Oh, have they, now?” said Draco, reaching for the door handle.

“Mhm,” said Potter. “In fact, I—”

He was cut off by Draco pulling him into the classroom. 

“Get the door,” Draco said, scanning the room to make sure it was truly as empty as it seemed. The morning light was growing stronger with each second, streaming in through the latticed windows and stretching to illuminate the first row of unoccupied desks.

Potter locked the door— a sound that thundered against the stone walls. Draco’s heart echoed in his chest at what seemed like the same level as he realised: Potter was staring at him for the first time that morning.

“Stop that,” Draco said, feigning annoyance. “What were you thinking out there? You realise there could have been subtler ways to get my attention?” 

“Hang on,” said Potter, dropping his school bag onto the floor with a thump. “I was just trying to do what _you_ would have, in that situation. Tell me, what would have looked more suspicious: Draco Malfoy harassing Harry Potter on his way to class, or the pair of us trying to sneak off somewhere, with neither of us saying a word?”

“I don’t know,” said Draco, dropping his bag next to Potter’s on the floor, “but that latter one tells me I’m right about you: you _do_ think you’re all anyone cares about in this awful place.”

“You’ve been me for weeks now, you tell me— in your experience, how much do you think I’ve exaggerated there, exactly?”

“Hmph,” Draco said, not wanting to admit Potter was right. “Regardless, if you’d given me more warning, I could have used this again—” he took Potter’s invisibility cloak out and gestured with it— “which might have avoided the whole issue. I assume this is what you were really asking for?”

“Yeah, but it was only the first thing that came to mind…” Potter’s head tilted to one side. “I wasn’t really asking for it back. You know that, right?”

“What were you doing, then? I’m sure you don’t want me to keep this forever.”

“No, not really,” said Potter, taking the cloak and stashing it in his old bag. “I thought you might have taken it as a hint that I was ready to, erm… Change back.”

Draco folded his arms. “Great, now we’re using euphemisms. Look, Potter, I meant what I said earlier. I don’t want to pressure you, and I certainly didn’t want to assume your harassing me had anything to do with righting things.”

“But did you want it to be about that?” Potter said hesitantly. 

Draco’s green eyes found the ceiling. “Of course I do. I’m sure I speak for the both of us when I say I’m very eager to get back into my own body, but short of repeating myself again, I’ll just ask: are you, or are you not, ready to turn back into yourself?”

“I am, only…” Potter gave a breathy laugh, and a splotchy pink spread across his cheeks. “I came in here fully prepared to kiss Draco Malfoy, but somehow I keep forgetting you’re wearing my body. I look at you — or myself, really, — and I see your smirk and the way you walk… Do you know how confusing it is to look at what’s essentially yourself and want that person anyway?”

“Quickest way to make this less confusing is to get it over with,” said Draco, trying not to sound excited at what Potter had confirmed. “Psychological implications aside.”

“I suppose you’re right.”

Draco gasped dramatically. “What’s that?”

This time, when Potter laughed, the awkwardness had vanished entirely from his voice. “You won’t hear me say it again.”

“Hmph. Well,” Draco said, ankling up to him, “lucky for you, once was enough.” He grabbed the front of Potter’s robes with both hands. “Come here.”

The instant their lips touched, something incredible started to happen. It was like a breeze blowing over Draco’s body, disturbing not only his hair, but his skin and bones. Draco felt himself begin to grow taller; Potter shrank before him, and Draco tilted his head down to accommodate the change. He found the back of Potter’s neck, putting more pressure into the kiss because he didn’t dare separate now, not when the transformations were happening all at once and without the pain of the first time…no, he needed Potter to be closer, much closer, and Potter must have thought the same thing because he brought a hand up to Draco’s cheek, which was _perfect_ and _brilliant_ — 

And suddenly it was over.

Draco didn’t want to open his eyes, despite the logical part of his brain telling him it wouldn’t be like that first time— that the reversal had worked. He rested his forehead against Potter’s, and noticed the sore spot where Potter’s scar used to be had vanished. He remembered the first night all too well, when the scar had seared itself onto his skin like a metal brand… How it had burned sometimes, randomly, often at night— a deep, pulsing ache that had woken him up suddenly, without explanation. 

“Malfoy,” he heard, and it wasn’t his own voice coming from the other boy anymore. It was Potter’s: gentle and steady and slightly reedy. He withdrew, but Draco could still feel the heat of his body, inches away. “I’d like my glasses back, if you don't mind.” 

And that’s what convinced him. Draco slid the metal frames off his face and everything came into focus. He tried very hard to control his breathing. Potter stood before him, looking more real as he put on his glasses than he had in the past three weeks. Every time Draco had looked into the mirror to see Harry Potter staring back, it had felt _wrong_. Not only because he had never gotten used to seeing another person’s reflection, but because he had never figured out how Potter got that levity in his eyes, or how he held himself: somehow shy and proud at the same time.

“Hi,” Draco said simply, hoping to convey the jumble of emotions he felt through that single word. It came out as a half-whisper.

“Hi,” Potter said back, in a similar tone. He pressed his fingers to Draco’s chin, much the same way he had done weeks before— like he was testing a knife’s edge. Then he ran his fingers along Draco’s jawline, green eyes flashing with clear delight. 

“Like what you see?” Draco asked, with more confidence than he’d expected from himself. His heart felt like it was rushing to leave his body, and no doubt Potter could feel his pulse jumping under his touch.

“How am I supposed to answer that, Malfoy?”

Draco blinked. “I’d _hope_ with a yes,” he said, pulling slightly away from Potter, “but if your interests lie elsewhere—”

Potter leaned forward. “Don’t pretend you’re thick all of a sudden; I know Hermione and Ron must’ve told you.”

“So did you,” Draco pointed out. He pulled Potter to him by the hips. “What was that you said about not minding kissing Draco Malfoy? Did I hear that right?”

“You did,” Potter said, and tugged him down for a kiss that was far, far better than their first one, and not only because they were in the proper bodies this time. Potter’s lips were soft and warm and open slightly; his hands were insistent on messing up Draco’s hair, and the one thought Draco kept coming back to, besides _more_ , was _finally_.

“We should—” Draco said, before Potter kissed him again.

“What?” Potter said distractedly.

“We should go to the hospital wing, right?” said Draco.

Potter’s mouth, which was a great deal redder than it had been before, dropped open. “Right. That’s smart. Erm, but…what’ll we tell Madam Pomfrey about how we changed back?”

Draco arched an eyebrow. “You mean you _don’t_ want her to know we just made out?”

“We did _not_ make out,” said Potter, blushing again. It was a lot more adorable on him in that body than when he’d been wearing Draco’s. 

“We did, though,” Draco said, scrunching his nose playfully, “a little.”

Potter shook his head in amusement, then bent to grab his bag. “Let’s go.”

  
  


*******

The first Quidditch match between Slytherin and Gryffindor came soon enough, and Draco wasn’t upset when Potter won, catching the Snitch right out from under Draco’s reaching hand as he always seemed to do. 

After he’d showered and changed, Draco waited for Potter outside the Gryffindor changing rooms. “Congratulations, Potter,” he said when he saw the boy. He stretched out a hand. “Another great save; you deserve the win.”

“And you are?” Potter teased, shaking Draco’s hand.

“What, I’m not allowed to say that?”

“No, and I’d argue I don’t ‘deserve’ anything. I won, fair and square. Unless,” Potter said, “there’s something you’d like to tell me?”

“I didn’t let you win, no,” Draco said with a chuckle. “As far as I’m concerned, nothing has changed between us.”

Potter pursed his lips. “Oh, so I take it you wouldn’t want, say, a kiss from me, then?”

“I never said that,” Draco said quickly. “Is everyone out of your changing rooms?”

“Yeah.” said Potter. He gave Draco a sly grin. “Yours?”

“Yes.”

“Good.”


End file.
